Another Country (12 page)

‘The mussels are yummy,' Leela said.

The large room had a rustic, somewhat Spanish feeling, perplexing given that the house was in Richmond. In other circumstances, Leela might have warmed to Seb's mother. She was very English, and rather upper class – his father, who spent part of the year in Spain, was a painter. Leela hadn't heard of him. There was a studio in the house, and various canvases, some unframed, hung or were propped here and there. She liked them: they were warm abstracts that looked like aerial views of seascapes, different rich blues, greys and greens that made her think of reefs, or masses of seaweed.

Seb's mother, who had been a star showjumper, was a pro-hunting campaigner. Leela had always been against the idea of hunting, mainly on the grounds of the loathsomeness of those who seemed to do it. Was it so much worse, she now wondered, to chase and murder fox babies than to coop up chickens so they couldn't move, then eat their eggs? She winced at the thought of cows being milked by machines, compassion she couldn't justify for suffering she was unable to measure.

She caught Seb's mother giving her an odd look and realised she had stopped eating. Seb smiled and poured her more wine.

‘So, Leela, have you been to Avondale yet?' This was their school, Richard's and Seb's.

‘Not yet. But then Richard hasn't been to visit my comprehensive yet,' she pointed out with a grin. Richard smiled; Esme, Seb's mother, looked unamused. Everyone had a showpiece conversation about capital punishment, in which Leela took the opposite line to the one she thought she believed. These sorts of discussion were not foreign; she was comfortably back in the world she'd grown up in, where children were expected to have interesting things to say. But, when she made a distinction between the persistence of life and its quality, and which might be considered more important, she found Seb looking apologetic and his mother appalled. ‘As a Christian, I'm afraid the sanctity of life is something I take very seriously,' Esme said curtly.

Leela nodded and was silent. Later, as she was eating a syllabub, she thought, but what about the mussels and prawns in the paella? She felt that it hadn't been what she'd said, but the person she was, in an undefined way: her foreignness, but disappointing lack of corresponding aristocratic or artistic background – her mother was a lawyer, her father a language teacher, not that Esme had asked – or even her gender, that meant that Esme would have preferred, somehow, that Leela be a little bit prettier, or somewhat more silent.

But all of this might have been untrue.

Seb's younger sister, whom Leela had an idea Richard had always thought pretty, wasn't there; she was at university in Bristol. Her name was India.

Richard's dad came for a visit. Richard, flushed and pleased, said they'd gone to lunch in an Indian restaurant in Mayfair. ‘You'd have liked it, the food was delicious. We'll have to go some time.'

Leela didn't argue with him. She went out with Judy after work.

‘Do you want to go somewhere round here, then go back into town?'

‘Are you crazy?' Judy said. ‘Have you seen the places round here?'

She lived south of the river, Leela north, so they went for a drink at Baker Street, then to a restaurant that served crêpes and galettes.

Judy listened, her head on one hand, as Leela explained the situation with Richard, his father, and the unusual living arrangement. ‘So you don't really see him when his dad's here?'

‘I do, but not that much. He calls if he's free.'

Judy's eyes narrowed. Then she smiled, and reached for the carafe. ‘Let's have another drink,' she said.

Leela went home, which was now a flat share in Marylebone, in the apartment owned by a woman named Dee Dee, who had a seven-year-old daughter, Alisha. Dee Dee wore acrylic nails, and kept her Mars bars and cans of Coca-Cola in the fridge, so that vegetables had to be eased in between them. She was in theory an accommodating but in practice exasperated flatmate. She was pathologically clean, and had given Leela basic instructions when she moved in. The sink had to be washed every time dishes were washed in it; it must then be wiped with a paper towel to prevent water marks.

Dee Dee went to sleep early most days, and Leela was able to steal into the flat, walk to the kitchen and sink, get a glass of water, wipe the sink (Dee Dee would notice if she hadn't) and go to her room. She kept the door locked; Dee Dee had said she might.

When she was in bed, her phone beeped. It was a text from Richard: Goodnight sweetie xx. She replied: he called, upbeat after a nice evening with his father. He left it slightly too long to ask about her evening, and in the small lag her rage mounted. She gave herself permission to be angry.

‘Why are you gloating about your evening? What's wrong with you?'

‘What do you mean gloating?'

‘You're always going on about things you do with your dad, but you won't let me meet him. It's deliberately cruel.'

‘No it's not. I've explained –'

‘I don't give a fuck about your explanation.'

It went on, increasingly vicious in words and forms, but a part of her was nonetheless aware of the moonlight, cold and quiet, moving across the room through not-quite-closed curtains.

Chapter 16

She was up quickly, out of bed, then in the kitchen, putting on the kettle, but Richard was almost unbelievably slow. She put a cup of coffee near him when she came back for a towel. He rolled over and smiled at her, the secretive smile of a child who knows he is loved. She felt a kick of repulsion.

‘Coffee.'

‘Thanks sweetie.'

She went to the bathroom, turned on the shower, brushed her teeth, examined her face in the mirror. Her eyes narrowed. She got into the shower, soaped, washed her hair and emerged in a towel, got her coffee, heard the noises of Dee Dee waking up, a radio, and went back to her room. The light was still on, the curtain unopened. Richard was up, bumbling, looking at his hair in the mirror, then rifling through his bag.

‘I don't know if you have time to take a shower, unless you hurry,' she said.

‘I'll hurry.'

He took the other towel and headed to the bathroom. She dressed and put on some make-up, the eyes still severe. He came back, gave her a kiss, and she recognised and silently condemned the smell of his mouth beneath the toothpaste.

‘Sorry sweetie, I'll only be a minute.'

‘I'm getting late.'

‘I know, I'm sorry, give me a minute.' He pulled out clean boxers and put them on, a shirt, then his perennial grey jumper and a pair of corduroys. He looked at her, suddenly appealing. ‘Can I borrow some socks?'

She was exasperated. It was a bone of contention, quasi-humorous, that he took her socks and didn't return them. She fished in a drawer. ‘Here.'

‘Thanks sweetie.'

He sat on the bed to put them on properly, irritating her further, then checked his satchel. They could leave. She marched towards the station; he followed.

‘Hey, slow down, you're leaving me behind.'

She turned. Her face was a mask of rage, but that was ordinary. Today, though, he hurried closer, shifted his satchel strap, hunched his shoulders, and took the hand she reluctantly gave him.

‘I'm feeling a bit odd,' he said.

‘Odd how?' She tried to pull him along faster.

‘A bit tender. Like you don't really want me around.'

Near the station, a bus roared by. A shiny cab swung in front as they were about to cross the road. Leela nearly tutted. When the cab had passed they crossed, in the opposite direction to a flow of men and women in stiff, heavy overcoats. How neat their facade was, she thought.

‘I'm worried about being late again. You don't get what it's like,' she bit out.

‘I know. Sorry, sweetie.' It was annoying, this faux humility.

They arrived at the tube; she would go one way, he another.

‘See you tonight?' he said. He looked tall; his skin was bad right now.

‘I might just have a night at mine,' she said. She imagined blissful solitude.

‘I can come over again,' he said quickly.

‘No.' She paused. ‘Okay, I'll come to yours.'

‘See you later, sweetie.' He swooped in for a kiss and was gone.

Leela hurried through the turnstile.

‘So things are going better?'

Leela shrugged. ‘I think I just don't care as much any more.'

Judy raised an eyebrow.

‘Is it lunchtime yet?' Leela asked.

The other woman grinned. ‘That's the sixth time you've asked. Why did you come with me if you were going to get this bored?'

‘I thought you needed one of the edit people in case you had to cut text.'

‘Hypothetically, yes,' said Judy.

‘To blame, in case there's a typo or a hanging sentence.'

Judy grinned. ‘Now you've got the idea. Okay, we can go. I'll finish the rest after a break.'

They stood, found their coats again at the outer door, and were leaving the printer's when they nearly bumped into someone tall, dark, bearded, slightly plump, oddly familiar.

‘Oh, hi!' He paused, staring at them, particularly Leela. He stuck out a hand. ‘Roger Wilkes. From the wedding.'

‘Oh, of course. Hi, how are you?'

He looked from one to the other of them. ‘This is my friend Judy, my colleague,' Leela said.

‘Roger, hi.' Judy's voice was uninflected. Leela listened neurotically for a shade of mocking.

‘Um, are you going for lunch?'

‘Yeah, we're going for a sandwich.'

‘Oh, okay.' He hesitated.

Someone else was pushing the glass door behind Leela, who jumped aside. ‘Ooh, sorry.'

‘Well, maybe see you later?'

‘Okay!'

They took the stairs.

‘Who's that?' Judy asked.

‘I met him at the wedding, remember, the one I went to in Devon? I wouldn't have remembered his name, actually. He seemed nice though. He was on his own.'

‘Hm, he's sort of cute.'

‘You think? Not a bit fat?' Leela stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

‘I think he's attractive.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah,' Judy said. ‘I like that Mediterranean look. A bit stocky, a bit hairy.'

‘Who would have guessed?'

The outer door led onto the high street and a blast of cold air and pre-Christmas sullenness. The decorations were up.

‘Jesus. Look at this weather.'

Leela was tormented agreeably through lunch and the afternoon by the desire to see Roger again, and find out if he was indeed handsome, or if she was attracted to him. Either or both of these questions might be answered by another chance encounter on the stairwell.

What had he been doing in the building? She didn't think he worked there, but perhaps he too had some sort of journal to produce, or something he was getting printed.

‘Do you want some coffee?' she asked Judy in the afternoon.

‘Yeah. Uh – actually, no, that machine coffee makes me feel sick.'

‘Shall I go to the place in the mall?'

Judy looked up, then at the clock on her screen. ‘Forget it, it's three forty-five now, we won't even be here that late with any luck.'

‘I might go anyway, just to get some air.'

Judy raised her eyebrows, and said nothing. Leela, unsure whether she felt excited or slightly sick, went into the stairwell, put on her coat, and descended the steps. She walked to the coffee place and ordered an Americano and a cappuccino. She returned, meditating on the way the suburban landscape was completely without beauty. There was a branch of a tree hanging over a wall near the shopping centre; a couple of leaves still clung to the knobbly wood. If her eyes had been better, if she could have looked more closely, would she have found more to see in it?

She carried the coffee upstairs and met no one.

‘So January is closed?'

‘Yeah. Thank fuck.'

‘Right.' Leela continued to hover. ‘What about
Cement Trade
?'

‘Huh?' The other girl looked up, and pushed hair away from her face. ‘Which one?'

‘Um, March?'

‘Are you feeling okay?'

Leela grinned and melted away. ‘Yeah, I mean, yeah. Just – yeah.'

‘Wait! You want to go to the printer, don't you? And meet Alfred Molina?'

‘Who?'

‘The swarthy man, Ha ha,' Judy began to cackle, though to Leela's relief softly. ‘You have a
thing
for him.'

‘No I don't.'

‘You do!'

‘I think,' Leela said, her dignity impaired only by a grin that seemed to stretch over her entire head, ‘that you are forgetting I have a boyfriend.'

‘Someone is.'

‘Oi.'

Judy smiled, picked up her water bottle, and walked towards the passage.

For about three days and four nights Leela dwelt in a romantic-sexual haze. She had experienced this numerous times, with objects that had included boys at school, Robert Redford in
Out of Africa
, an unattractive occasional tutor at university, men on the tube. Now she dreamt of Roger, who in the daydreams had come increasingly to resemble Alfred Molina – an actor, she discovered – because she couldn't remember how Roger actually looked. He was tall, a bit paunchy, dark, and pretty hairy, she remembered that much. His hairy wrists and dark eyes now became an erotic focus. Roger – strange name – was no doubt passionately artistic. The sex was amazing. The intensity of their bond was extraordinary. She imagined a misunderstanding that briefly separated them, and led to an even more passionate reunion.

It passed the train journey, when she sat soporifically staring at misty, rain-dampened outer-city fields and miserable horses. It passed the moments when she reviewed the next quarter's editorial budget in an Excel sheet for each title. It nearly passed the horrid cups of coffee either from the Klix machine on their floor, or from the building's cafeteria on the third floor, where of a morning she went to get a drink and examine the oleaginous bacon rolls.

She mentioned it to Richard, wondering why he didn't see into her thoughts and discern the obvious interest. ‘I met Roger, remember, the guy from Christian and Elisa's wedding? The one who was on his own?'